


bazsarózsa

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mentions of past drug use and addiction, descriptions of injuries, lots of discussions about death, mentions of medical procedures, some negative introspection, this really isn't a super dark fic i just want to make sure everything's tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20831027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: “Okay,” Will says slowly. “Are youforgettingabout all the times that you’ve saved my life, or are youignoringthem?”





	bazsarózsa

**Author's Note:**

> do not ask me whence this comes, for i have no goddamn clue

Every breath steams above him, billowing into the air then fading to the faintest touch of white against the mottled grey of the sky.

_It’s snowing again,_ he thinks absently, and sighs. Another cloud, another curl, another wisp. How many does he have left?

It’s hard to keep his eyes open, lulled as he is by the unsteady movement beneath him and the mesmerizing dancing of the snow above, but he does. If he lets them close too long, he may fall asleep, and if he falls asleep, well…

Horace will be angry, at the very least. He’d made that clear. At the worst, he’s...not actually quite sure. Buried deep in the back of his mind is something he should remember, something he should know, something that was important, but he’s tired, and it seems so far away.

He lets out another long, slow breath, and watches it swell, transform, and dissipate, trailing away as he leaves it behind.

“You all right back there, Will?” comes Horace’s voice. Will hums in response, but this isn’t nearly as visible. For a moment he’s tempted to say something, to speak solely for the reassuring sight of his breath in the air, but the deep gouge in his side throbs sickly at the thought.

Breathing used to be hard, too. Used to ache and stab with every movement of his chest. That’s gone, now, so presumably talking will get easier, too. 

Clearly, he’s well on his way to healing already. He should let Horace know— But no, speaking is still too much. Once that’s better, he will. But for now, he lets himself be entranced by the snow swirling down around him.

← ⋅ →

Horace keeps going as long as he can into the night, but the terrain is getting more difficult, and as much as he hates it, he knows he needs to rest.

Not for the first time, he wonders if maybe he should have gone straight for a road, rather than trying to cut a path cross-country. At the time, he’d thought this would be faster, but he’s less certain with each passing hour. Still, he’s committed to it now, and going on will certainly be quicker, no matter how difficult it is.

If, that is, he’s actually going in the right direction.

The maps of this area are hardly detailed, more like vague approximations of the land than actual charts of it, but he’d plotted their course as carefully as possible, and he knows he’s done his best, even if he’s aching to be able to do more.

_“You’re already doing plenty,”_ he can imagine Will saying, that reassuring smile cutting through his anxiety like sunshine through fog, but Will hasn’t said more than a few words at a time in over a day, and there’s been nothing like a smile in twice that time.

Time is running out, and he is _terrified_ that his best won’t be nearly enough.

Once it gets dark enough that seeing is possible but not easy, he picks out a bare young tree and drags the sled over to it, dropping the lead ropes and maneuvering it into place from the foot until the headboard bumps up against the bark.

Will watches with dull, disinterested eyes, and barely blinks when Horace moves to crouch by his head. 

“How are you doing?” he asks softly. Will twitches his eyebrows in a shrug, but doesn’t do more. Horace sighs. He hadn’t really expected him to – he’s lost a lot of blood, and Horace doesn’t think he’s imagining the sheen of sweat on his face, totally at odds with the cold of the air. He pulls off a mitten anyway, and presses the backs of his fingers against Will’s cheek. Definitely too warm. He sighs again, sliding the mitten back on, then firmly pushes down his growing despair. “Right,” he says, with a grin he doesn’t feel, “allow me to see to our accommodations for the night.”

Their “accommodations” are a long, thin pole lashed against one of the runners of their makeshift sled, and the large waxed canvas sheet that had been their tent. During the day, it’s folded up and draped over the rectangular frame at the front to stop the snow Horace’s steps kick up from flying back onto Will. At night, he sets the pole perpendicular to a tree trunk, ties it firmly in place with the long lead ropes, and stretches the canvas asymmetrically over it to form a triangle with one short, almost vertical side, and one long, sloping one, both anchored to the ground by stout wooden pegs driven through the reinforced holes punched along the edges.

It’s not much, but it’s shelter; low to the ground and open at both ends, but better than nothing, and the best he can do.

He rigs it quickly, then unslings Will’s longbow from his shoulder and slides it in next to Will, followed by the quiver of arrows. The double scabbard now sits on Horace’s belt along with his sword, and if he weren’t so tired, and so totally sure that they were the only people for kilometers, he wouldn’t have taken it off. But he is, and they are, so he unbuckles it and puts it in the tent with the rest of the weapons.

Then, armed with only his own small knife, he sets off to collect brush and deadfall for a small fire. It won’t be much, but isn’t that the tune of the day? _It won’t be much…_ They had better make it to Grimsdell before their luck runs out and ‘not much’ becomes ‘not nearly enough.’

For now, though, their luck seems to be holding. At least, he chooses to believe it is.

After laying the fire in a pit scuffed out of the frost-hard ground beneath the snow, Horace crawls into the tent alongside Will, then turns carefully around and pokes his head and shoulders out to light it. The sparks catch after a few tries, and the next several minutes are spent sheltering them and coaxing the tiny flames to ever larger pieces of wood. At last, they have a small but merry fire, positioned near enough to the opening to send some light and warmth their way but not so close that the smoke will blow in or the flames will threaten the tarp. 

Horace slides himself back into the tent, and turns carefully once more.

Will’s to the vertical side, with the support pole about half a meter above him and the thick cloth forming a snug angle over and beside him. Any warmth that escapes the layers of cloaks and blankets bundled around him should be trapped and sent back, rather than dissipating into the chill air. “Warming up at all?” Horace asks. It’s mostly rhetorical, but he’s still not surprised at the answer.

“‘M fine,” Will croaks, because of course he does. That's Will, for you. 

Horace snorts in spite of himself. “Not quite how I would put it.”

“You?” Will asks, ignoring him.

“I’m all right,” Horace says, sobering. “Just worried.”

Will blinks slowly, catlike, and one corner of his mouth twitches vaguely upward. It’s the closest thing to a smile he’s managed since the spear had hit him three days ago. Horace smiles back. “I know, I know – you’re fine, I shouldn’t worry, you’ll be back to normal in no time, and you’ll kick my arse to prove it. Did I get everything?”

Will gives another tiny half-smile, then his face goes drawn once more. 

Horace’s heart lurches in his chest, and his own smile drops away. He _hates_ seeing Will like this, his vibrant energy totally drained, his expressive face a mask of pain and misery, but there’s nothing he can do. Nothing but try to keep him alive long enough to hand him over to Malcolm, and then hope that there’s enough of him left to save.

← ⋅ →

When Will wakes up, he’s moving again.

Distantly, he hears the tramp of Horace’s boots in the snow and the creaking of the ropes that pull him along behind, the strange crunching keen of the runners. It’s not snowing anymore, and the grey sky is dull and boring above him.

He lets his eyes drift to the side, hoping vaguely for something more interesting to look at. There’s nothing. Just a dull expanse of the same featureless grey, like fog.

He closes his eyes again. He’d been sleeping before, and Horace hadn’t woken him, so it must be all right now. He’s so tired, and so warm, and breathing is starting to hurt again, so why shouldn’t he sleep? Why shouldn’t he rest? Why shouldn’t he… Why… 

He really is quite warm, all of a sudden. Like something he can barely remember from a long-ago past. Like liquid heat spilling through him, from his fingertips to his toes, carrying the most delicious sense of peace and safety.

A clouded memory surfaces, of white mountains and salt air and the lashing of whips, but it’s comforting, somehow, awash in a gentle golden light. _I always knew I’d die in the snow,_ he thinks absently, and feels only a soft glow of contentment that he’d been right. 

There’d been warmth, then, and it had carried him away, lifted him free of pain and fear and worry. And now it’s back, ready to do the same again. He smiles, and gives himself over to it.

← ⋅ →

“Will! _Will!_ Wake up or I swear to _God_ I’ll—”

Something wet and freezing cold lands on his face, and he opens his eyes groggily, confused by the sudden assault. Horace’s face hovers close by, eyes wide and bloodshot.

Another cold and wet appears on his neck, and he flinches away, then groans as the movement pulls at the searing ache in his side. 

“What did I tell you?” Horace demands angrily, but his voice is oddly thick. Maybe it’s the fog, distorting it… but no, the fog is gone, the endless grey lifted from a world of black and white, and the gilded haze of warmth along with it. There are trees around them, Will realises. That should be significant. “Don’t go to sleep!” Horace shouts, bringing his wandering eyes back to him. “How many times have I told you that? You need to stay awake!”

“Tired,” Will mutters. Now that the warmth is gone, he feels heavy and aching and sick. He tries to turn his head to the side, but a frigid touch stops him.

“I know,” Horace says, his voice cracking. “I know, Will, but you need to stay awake, all right? Just for a little while longer.”

More cold, more wet.

“Stop,” he says. “Stop. It’s cold,” but Horace shakes his head. 

“You need to cool down. Your fever’s getting too high.”

Fever? What… He tries again to turn away; again, he’s stopped.

_Snow,_ he realises suddenly. That’s what he’s feeling. Horace is holding handfuls of snow against his face and neck. 

Snow, and trees, and Horace, and a fever… the details are slow to surface, and slower to join together, but eventually they fall into place.

“Grimsdell?” he asks, looking around again. Horace nods. “Malcolm,” he starts, but Horace shakes his head, eyes tight with worry.

“Not yet. We must have been seen by now, but he’s not here yet. That’s why you need to stay awake. Just stay awake until he gets here, and then you can sleep, I promise.”

“I don’t know…” He trails off, not really sure of what he doesn’t know. Most things, probably. Everything, maybe. The clarity that had come with the shock of the cold seems to be slipping away. But Horace is right there, kneeling in the snow beside him, close enough to touch if he could lift his arm to do so, and there’s one thing that he does know. “Thank you,” he says. The words seem so inadequate, but they’re all he can muster. “Thank you.” 

And he slips away.

← ⋅ →

When one of Malcolm’s people emerges from the trees, Horace doesn’t care that he’s sitting in the snow, disheveled from days of difficult travel, and crying openly. He just flings an arm back in the direction the woman had come from, shouting for her to get Malcolm, to get _help,_ he’s not a threat, he’s not a danger, his friend is _dying, please, can’t you see he needs help—_ He can barely see through the tears streaming from his eyes, can barely _speak_ through them, but he doesn’t care. He just sobs, and shouts – the woman _still_ doesn’t turn, doesn’t leave – until he hears the last thing he’d expected to.

Barking.

No sooner has he registered it than a black and white shape comes tearing at them through the trees, sprinting in the graceful bounds of a dog bred to run. _Shadow._ His heart lifts, because where there’s Shadow, there’s—

“Trobar,” he says thickly as the giant man comes into view, loping as easily as Shadow.

Shadow skids to a stop less than a meter from Will in a spray of snow, nosing at him and whining, then lifting her head to look back and make sure Trobar isn’t far behind.

“Please,” he says again, craning his neck to look up as Trobar’s towering form slows to a stop by the dog. “Please, just get him to Malcolm.”

Trobar nods solemnly, then, without question or hesitation, crouches and lifts Will from the sled. He rises easily, Will dwarfed in his massive arms, and sets off at a jog back the way he’d come, Shadow close on his heels.

Horace, suddenly without purpose, simply stays where he is in the snow, watching them go. He’s startled by a hand on his shoulder, and looks around sharply to see the woman who’d appeared first, crouched by his side. Her face is thickly scarred, but her eyes hold a profound compassion. “Come on,” she says softly, and tugs at his upper arm. “We’ll go together.”

← ⋅ →

A few hours later, he’s sitting at Malcolm’s table, slumped over a mug of tea. He’d asked for coffee when he arrived, but Malcolm had called out from his workroom that Horace was not to be allowed it under _any_ circumstances, and so tea it was. He isn’t particularly enjoying it, but drinking it is something to _do,_ so he keeps at it.

A little way into his third cup, Malcolm steps out into the main room, and Horace bolts to his feet, mindless of the hot liquid sloshing onto the table as he jars it, but Malcolm waves him down tiredly before he can do more than take a preparatory breath. “Just getting a drink,” he says, and Horace’s spirits plummet.

This long with no news can’t be good, but this long and still not done is worse.

He drops back into his seat, spilling more tea but not caring. Malcolm sees, of course, and tuts gently as he pours himself a cup. “See why I didn’t give you coffee?” he asks. “The last thing you need right now is a stimulant.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Horace asks miserably. “Please, Malcolm, I just need to know _something.”_

“I don’t know,” Malcolm says, still in that gentle voice, and Horace wilts. “It’s a serious injury, and he’s very weak. But he’s young, and fit, and generally in good health, so it’s hard to say what the outcome will be. Don’t give up hope,” he adds firmly, “but let yourself rest. It’s going to be a long fight either way, and he’ll need you at his side. He depends on you, you know.”

Horace scoffs. “Oh, yeah, and we all saw what good _that_ did him,” he says bitterly. From the moment Will had been hurt – in a skirmish that shouldn’t have mattered _at all_ – Horace had been scrambling to keep his feet under him, desperately trying to come up with answers and solutions and painfully aware of just how out of his depth he was. And now, with even Malcolm unsure if his skills would be enough, it was all too clear that Horace had let Will down. _Horribly._

Malcolm nods seriously, and Horace braces himself for the dressing down of a lifetime. “We did,” he agrees. “You brought him here, through difficult conditions and over poorly charted terrain, and you kept him alive. I couldn’t have done that.”

Horace looks up sharply. “Of course you could, you’re the best healer—”

“I couldn’t have done it,” Malcolm repeats firmly. “There are many different kinds of strength, Horace, and they are called on at different times. You may not have been able to treat his injuries as I can, but if not for you, I would never have had the chance to. You’re the one who’s saved his life – I’m just trying to continue what you started.”

Horace opens his mouth, closes it, and shakes his head helplessly. “I just did my best,” he says. “I’m not a thinker, or a planner, I just…” He gestures vaguely. “I just _do_ things.” _And they usually turn out about as awfully as this._

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Malcolm chides. “You’ve got a better head on your shoulders than many, and far bigger heart than most.” He looks down at the cup in his hand as if he’d forgotten about it, then downs it all in a single go. “I’d best get back to it,” he says after he’s done. “I’ll let you know as soon as you can see him, but in the meantime, try to get some rest.”

Horace nods. “And you’ll let me know if…if anything happens?”

“Of course. But don’t dwell on the ‘if’s. It’ll only drive you mad.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good man,” Malcolm says approvingly, then goes back to his work.

Horace folds his arms on the table and drops his head against them.

It’s going to be a long, long night.

← ⋅ →

Somehow, Horace manages to sleep, but only after one of Malcolm’s assistants pulls him up and steers him into one of the empty bedrooms. He collapses on the bed, intending only to nap for a bit, and wakes up to find that it’s full light outside and someone has covered him with a blanket.

He throws it back and rises quickly, stumbling as his vision greys and his ears ring at the sudden change, and has to grip the bedpost for balance. It clears in a few moments, and then he’s off. Off where, he isn’t totally sure, but his feet bring him unerringly to the door of Malcolm’s workroom. He pauses outside, listening carefully – when he doesn’t hear anything, he eases the door open and steps inside.

It’s dark, the thick curtains drawn tightly shut, but there’s enough light spilling in from the hall to see that Will’s in the bed. He takes another step, letting the door open just a bit more, and sees the steady, even movement of Will’s chest, rising and falling as he breathes. The enormity of his relief makes him lightheaded, and his vision blurs. He gropes his way to the chair he knows will be by the bed, and sinks into it gratefully.

Up close, he can see that his friend’s face is still drawn and flushed, and that his dark hair is damp with sweat, but he’s _alive._ Horace didn’t fail him. He slumps back in the chair, abruptly exhausted.

Within a few minutes, he’s asleep again.

← ⋅ →

The next several days are, in Malcolm’s words, ‘touch and go.’ The head of the spear had cut through skin and muscle and scored a long slice along one of the organs, but not punctured it. The weapon had been old and poorly cared for, and while that had probably kept the blow from doing any more immediate damage, infection had set in quickly, and Will had lost a great deal of blood.

Between that and the cold, he’d been badly weakened, and he hadn’t had much of a base to start with. Horace is one of the very few people who know how deeply Will had been scarred by his time as a slave in Skandia, and that knowledge is gnawing at him now. Despite his general good health, his ability to fight off illnesses and recover from injuries is much reduced from what it had been, and there’s a very good chance that he and Malcolm are overestimating Will's endurance.

He brings it up tentatively with Malcolm, but as he’d half suspected, Malcolm already knows, and assures Horace that he’s taken it into account. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change much in Horace’s eyes.

Will is still extremely sick, and the fever that had started during their journey is proving to be just as stubborn as Will himself, leaving him unable to rest easily and waking him from sleep as it rises and falls.

"Come on Will," Horace murmurs, pressing a cold, wet cloth against his forehead. His unruly hair has been pulled back from his face, but escaped tendrils still cling to it, and his skin, usually a warm honeyed brown, has an unhealthy grey cast to it. "Come on, I know you can beat this. You beat a whole Temujai army, for fuck's sake; you can definitely beat a puny fever."

Will doesn't answer, but Horace thinks maybe his eyes flicker open for a second longer than usual.

Or maybe he's just imagining things.

Later that day, or earlier the next, Malcolm and Horace spend a very difficult half hour trying to get Will to drink some broth. He's more awake now, but no more lucid, and resists their efforts with surprising determination. 

"It's like trying to put a cat in a basket," Horace complains at one point, and Malcolm laughs. 

"That's certainly one way of describing it."

He seems to find Will's resistance encouraging, but Horace just finds it unnerving. His eyes are open, but he's clearly not seeing them for who they are. For a Ranger, that's an uncomfortable thought; for Will, unable to recognize his own best friend, it's deeply disturbing. Horace suspects that Will wouldn't react if it were Halt in the room with him, or Evanlyn, or Alyss. He's simply...gone.

"It's just the fever," Malcolm promises. "Once it starts to come down, he'll return to himself."

That seems a long way away, though. For almost a week now, the fever has been dipping slightly, and then rising some more, and then dipping a little, and rising a little more, and never falling enough to even it out. Slowly but surely, it's climbing higher and higher, and it's putting Horace more and more on edge. The relief he'd felt that first day is long gone, and it feels like every muscle in his body is taught, coiled tightly and ready to spring.

As credible as Malcolm's reassurances are, they do little to alleviate the tension. If Will would just wake up, then he could relax. If he could just get a sign, any sign at all, that his friend is still in there, then maybe he could sleep. But he doesn't, and there isn't, and so Horaces paces, and fidgets, and lies awake at night, and picks dispassionately at the food Malcolm sets before him.

Then, without warning, it's over.

← ⋅ →

Waking up is a slow, uncertain thing. His senses come back in scattered snatches – a flicker of light here, a feeling of warmth there, dull sounds picked out of the air like drifting dandelion seeds.

He fades in and out for a while, each time feeling closer to the surface, until at last he breaks through.

He opens his eyes.

He's...in a room, lying in a bed. That's a start, but it doesn't tell him much. He turns his head against the stiff protests of his neck, and comes face to face with Horace, looking pale and worn and absolutely exhausted.

He swallows, licks his dry lips. "You look terrible." His voice is a hoarse rasp that barely makes it out of his throat, but the effort is worth the reward of Horace's shaky grin.

"You're one to talk," he replies, no more smoothly. "But _God,_ is it good to see you." He leans forward and takes Will's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Welcome back," he says, and Will manages to grip Horace's hand in return.

"I'm back," he agrees, though he isn't entirely sure where Horace thinks he's been. "Now go sleep. And take a bath," he adds, just to get that smile again.

It reappears, still a bit watery, and Will sighs, content. He doesn't really know what's going on, but if Horace is here, then everything's going to be all right.

He sleeps again, and when he wakes up, it's Malcolm in the chair by his bed.

"Malcolm," Will says, intelligently, and looks around with new eyes. "Your home?" he asks.

Malcolm dips his head. "Indeed. Horace brought you here, and just in time. You were badly hurt, and very sick, but I think you're well on your way to healing."

"I don't remember," Will admits.

"That's quite normal, not to worry. The fever only broke yesterday, so your mind is likely still a bit scattered."

"I wish it were only a bit," Will mutters, and Malcolm chuckles.

"I'll bet. But it will clear – just give it time."

Time… "How long have I been here?"

"A little over a week."

Will blinks. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. "And have you and Horace…" He flicks a hand towards the chair. "The whole time?" Gorlog's hairy nostrils, how is he so exhausted by a tiny motion and those two broken sentences?

Malcolm's face flickers into a frown, then eases, but not before Will notes the change. "You were very sick," he says again, and this time there's a heaviness to it that makes Will uneasy. 

“How’s Horace?” he asks, unwilling to linger on the topic.

“Physically, fine,” Malcolm tells him. “He needs some sleep and some regular meals, same as you, but now that you’re back on the right track he should perk up quickly. I’ve managed to keep him away from the coffee so far,” he adds with a wistful air, “but I suppose that won’t last much longer.” 

Will pricks up at the word, but Malcolm shuts him down firmly. “No. Not one drop. The two of you, I swear,” he mutters. “Come dragging in here, you half dead, Horace half out of his mind with worry, and all you can think about is drinking my coffee.”

Will can’t help but smile at the words. “Ask Xander to send more.”

Malcolm smiles wickedly, and Will suspects he already has.

← ⋅ →

Horace is sitting outside on the cabin’s veranda, enjoying the weak winter sunlight as he tends to their weapons. They’d lain forgotten in his borrowed room while Horace was too worried about Will to do anything useful, but now that Will’s on the mend, he really should make sure his negligence hadn’t damaged his bow or knives.

The long arc of the bow is laid out over his knees as he works oil into the wood and checks for any signs of cracking or warping, but he looks up quickly at the sound of approaching horses.

Two horses, he sees, and two riders – and as they leave the cover of the trees, he recognizes both. Orman and Xander cross the clearing at a trot, coming to a stop at the hitching posts set a short way from the cabin. Orman dismounts, but Xander remains seated, and Horace rolls his eyes inwardly. The ill-tempered little man had probably complained the whole way here, and seems to want Horace to know that he’s here against his will.

Horace stands to greet Orman, who clasps his hand warmly. “Sir Horace,” he says, in a carrying voice. “So good to see you.” Then, quieter, “Do forgive Xander – his back is bothering him, but the stubborn fool still insisted on coming along.” The words are fond, despite Orman’s obvious exasperation, and Horace grins.

“It’s good to see you, too, my lord,” he says. “And you, Xander!” Xander waves a hand in half-hearted acknowledgement, then winces. Horace tries not to let his grin get any bigger, and looks back to Orman. “But what brings you here? Is everything all right at Macindaw?”

Orman gives him a scandalized look. “What do you think?” he demands. “That the castle’s under siege again and I decided to go for a little ride? No, you oaf, I’m here because Malcolm sent word that you and Will had got into trouble.”

“And,” Xander puts in, his tone querulous, “he told us to bring more coffee!”

← ⋅ →

Malcolm quickly puts Xander’s back to rights, and the little man’s temper improves considerably after that, making for an altogether much more pleasant afternoon.

Orman had indeed brought more coffee, and Malcolm lifts Horace’s ban on the understanding that if Will, still forbidden the drink, tries to kill him and take it for himself, that’s Horace’s problem.

“How long do you expect us to be here?” he asks, half joking, at the sight of the bag Orman had brought, but Malcolm only shrugs. 

“As long as it takes,” he says simply. “I’m keeping Will here until he’s fully recovered, and I suspect I won’t be able to send you away any sooner than that.”

Will’s steadily improving, but he’s nowhere near well enough to travel, and likely won’t be for another week at the very least. “Fair point,” Horace admits. “In that case, thanks for the coffee, Lord Orman.”

Orman waves his thanks away. “It’ll take a lot more than coffee to repay the debt I owe to you two,” he says. “You three, that is,” he adds, tipping his head at Malcolm. They’re all sitting at the large kitchen table, Horace with his coffee, Malcolm and Orman with tea, and Xander, incongruously, with a large mug of cocoa. A couple of pheasants are roasting over the fire, and potatoes are baking in the coals, filling the cabin with wonderfully homey smells.

Lunch will be ready soon, and just as Horace is starting to wonder if he should go and wake him, Will appears in the entrance to the hall. 

“Hello, Orman,” he says pleasantly, completely unsurprised. “Xander.”

Horace makes to get to his feet, but Orman is closer, and rises quickly to help Will across the room. Malcolm swaps one of the hard wooden chairs at the table for a softer arm chair from by the fire, and together they ease Will into it. Despite their care, Will winces sharply as the movement pulls at the wound in his side, and presses a hand against the bandages visible as a bulky layer beneath his shirt.

Then the moment passes, and he looks around the table with a wan grin. “Good to see everyone. Orman, what’s this I hear about you bringing coffee? And on a completely unrelated note, what’s that you’re drinking, Horace?”

_“No,”_ Malcolm says sharply. Horace pulls the mug closer, defensively. Will gives them a hurt look and mutters something about there being no tyranny like petty tyranny, but doesn’t push the matter. 

“What’s for lunch?” he asks instead. “I think I may actually be hungry today.”

Horace heaves a – quiet – sigh of relief. Will’s appetite, or lack of one, had been a touchy subject since he’d woken up. He’s not lost a terrible amount of weight, but enough to be noticeable, and enough to worry Horace. It’ll take time to gain it back, he knows – and he knows how difficult the process can be, having seen Will struggle with it for almost a year after their return to Araluen – but Will is determined, and knows what to do.

Will shoots him a glance, telling him that his reaction hadn’t been as subtle as he hoped. Oddly, Horace finds he doesn’t care. He’s worried, and Will knows it, so there’s no need to pretend otherwise. If Will doesn’t want his concern, he shouldn’t get stabbed and then make Horace drag his bleeding body through the snow for four days. He tries to communicate that with a glare of his own, and thinks some of it might have gotten across when Will gives a tiny facial shrug and looks away.

“—and potatoes,” Malcolm is telling him, “but there’s soup and bread as well if you don’t feel up to that.”

“No, I’ll try some of the pheasant,” Will says gamely, and Malcolm nods.

“It’ll be another half hour, so would you like anything in the meantime? Tea? Bread?”

“Just water, please.” 

Despite his claims, Will doesn’t look too enthused at the idea of food, and, once it’s set before him, eats only a portion of his already small serving. Malcolm doesn’t seem worried about it, so Horace tries not to be either, but it’s hard. As well as he knows that recovery takes time, the process never seems to be any less agonizingly slow. Especially when it’s a friend. _Especially_ when it’s Will. 

Malcolm, Orman, and Xander manage to carry the conversation through the meal, exchanging news, sharing anecdotes, and – in Xander’s case – launching into a long-winded diatribe about a castle page who had been stealing inkwells and hiding them in ludicrous places.

Will just listens, nodding or smiling every so often as he picks his way across his plate, pausing frequently to work himself up to taking another bite. Even so, by the time everyone else’s plates are cleared, Will’s much smaller one is still half full. The others pretend not to notice until at last he admits defeat.

“Sorry, Malcolm,” he says quietly. “I really thought…”

“No apologies necessary,” Malcolm tells him with a smile. “It's only to be expected, and I certainly don’t take it as an offense to my cooking. If you’re hungry later, feel free to help yourself to anything here. Except the coffee,” he adds sternly, and Will’s glum expression breaks into a small, lopsided grin. 

“Even _I_ haven’t stooped to eating coffee beans.”

“Not yet,” Horace agrees brightly, and everyone laughs at the evil glare Will turns on him.

Horace helps Malcolm clear the table, leaving Orman and Will to talk quietly for a bit. As he does, he happens to glance through the window to see Trobar on the far side of the clearing, splitting firewood, and he has a sudden thought.

“Malcolm,” he asks, “I haven’t seen Shadow since she found us in the woods. Is she all right? I know Will would love to see her.”

Malcolm sets his stack of plates down in the washbasin. “She’s fine,” he promises. “It’s been all Trobar can do to keep her away, in fact. But dogs and deep wounds don’t go well together, and I don’t want Will trying to deal with her until it’s closed up some more. None of us would be happy if he tore his stitches right now.”

Horace hums in agreement. He doesn’t really think Shadow would pose any threat, but Malcolm knows dogs better than he does, and definitely knows more about healing.

“I was also,” Malcolm adds, so quietly that Horace has to bend over slightly to hear him, “afraid of what it would do to her if he died.”

A chill runs down Horace’s spine.

“I know you said you weren’t sure,” he says, just as softly, “but did you really…” He trails off, the dark look on Malcolm’s face telling him all he needs to know. He glances back over at Will, grinning and shaking his head at something Orman had said, and shivers again. He’d known Will was in a bad way, known that there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it, but there’s something about hearing Malcolm say the words that makes it real and immediate.

Will could have died. And apparently he came very, very close to it.

Abruptly, he can’t seem to get enough air, and the alcove by the washbasin seems far too small. He takes an involuntary step back, almost a stumble, and then another, until he’s clear of the alcove and has a clear line to the door.

He hears questioning voices behind him, but he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t look back.

← ⋅ →

In the startled silence of Horace’s sudden departure, Will is the first to react.

“Excuse me,” he says to Orman, and pushes himself painfully to his feet. His side doesn’t hurt so badly now, but any sort of bending sets off an ache that’s somehow both piercing and dull. So really, he thinks drily, it _doesn’t_ hurt so badly, but only as long as he’s perfectly still. Orman rises with him, a firm grip around his arm and a needed point of stability against the surge of lightheadedness that accompanies the movement. Will nods his thanks, and takes a moment to get his breath back. “Help me outside?” he asks, and Orman inclines his head. 

It’s a short enough distance, but by the time they get to the door, Will’s leaning far more of his weight against Orman than he’d intended to, and there are hazy patches floating across his vision. Orman, for his part, is radiating tense disapproval, though he says nothing. They step out onto the veranda, and there, a few meters away, is Horace. Leaning heavily on the banister and staring blankly out into the snowy clearing, and not appearing to notice their arrival.

“Thank you,” Will says softly, and Orman lets him go to cross the final distance on his own.

A few stiff, difficult steps later, Will stands next to Horace at the railing, just barely keeping his feet. “I hate to ask this,” he manages, and Horace starts violently at the sound of his voice, “but I don’t think I can stand much longer. Can we—” But Horace is already leading him to one of the wicker chairs against the wall of the cabin and lowering him into it. Then he crouches in front of him, one hand on the arm of the chair and the other on Will’s knee, and stares at him, face pale and eyes wide.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He looks so horribly concerned, like Will’s going to fall apart before his eyes.

“What are you?” Will tosses back, and Horace blinks, swallows, looks away.

“I needed some air,” he says at last, voice thick. “I— It all just...”

Will sits back carefully and pats the chair next to his. “Sit. You’ll ruin your knees like that.”

Horace shakes his head. He’s breathing hard, Will notices, like he’s been running, and the hand resting on his knee is shaking. Horace’s hands _never_ shake.

“Horace?” Will asks. “Are you all right?”

Horace shakes his head again, a tight, trembling motion that looks more like a shiver than a deliberate action, and his worry ratchets up a notch.

“Please, Horace,” he says, a little desperately, “just look at me,” but Horaces refuses to meet his eyes. Will curses quietly, braces himself, and leans forward to snap his fingers in front of Horace’s face. _“Look at me.”_ It comes out breathier than he would have liked, but there’s enough command in his tone that Horace finally does.

There are tears in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks softly. The ache in his side is shrieking in protest of the position, but he ignores it. “Can you tell me?”

Horace blinks, and a few of the tears go sliding down his cheeks. Without thinking, Will reaches forward to wipe them away.

“You almost died,” Horace whispers, and Will pauses, taken aback.

_“That’s_ what this is about?” he asks after a beat, and huffs a short, painful laugh. “Horace, we’ve both almost died so many times, I can barely keep track of them all.”

“Don’t joke about it,” Horace says furiously, and slaps Will’s hand away from his face. “You almost _died,_ and I _watched_ you. I watched you, and I couldn’t _do_ anything.”

“But I didn’t! And you got me here, and now everything’s—”

“If you say ‘fine,’ so help me, I will hit you,” Horace hisses. “Yes, I got you here, but Malcolm was _barely_ able to save you, and then we spent another _week_ waiting to see if you’d make it through the fever, and now you can hardly _eat,_ and I can’t watch you go through this again.” He wipes his eyes jerkily, but the anger seems to have left him. “I just _can’t,_ Will,” he finishes, sounding more miserable than Will has ever heard him. “Not again. Not knowing it’s my fault.”

Will was frozen in place, trying to process the barrage of disjointed and seemingly unrelated statements. “What are you talking about?” he asks at last. “What _‘this’? What’s_ your fault?”

“This,” Horace says, gesturing expansively at the clearing, at the cabin, at Will. “Just like Skandia. None of it ever would have happened if I’d just been better. But I wasn’t. I’m _not,_” he corrects himself, tiredly. He sits down awkwardly on the floor of the veranda, then pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

It’s cold out, Will notices absently, and neither of them is really dressed for it, but that’s terribly unimportant right now.

“Okay,” Will says slowly. “Are you _forgetting_ about all the times that you’ve saved my life, or are you _ignoring_ them?” Horace doesn’t answer, so Will goes on. “I mean, sure, we’ve both had close calls, and if you feel anything like I do when you get hurt, then I know you feel awful, but it’s not your job to protect me. Protecting me is _my_ job. And Tug’s,” he adds after a second’s pause. “And you would not _believe_ the way he nags. But this isn’t your fault, and the idea that _Skandia_ was your fault?” ‘Too ridiculous for words,’ is what he wants to say, but that may come off a bit unkindly. “I don’t think we even have time for that one right now. You’ve done more for me than anyone could ask of a friend – how can you _possibly_ think that’s not enough? What on _earth_ makes you think you need to be better?”

There’s silence for a minute or so, then Horace speaks.

“I saw how hard it was for you, after Skandia. I saw what a toll it had taken, and what it took for you to move on. I saw your scars.” He stops. Will stays quiet, giving him time.

“I promised myself I’d never let anything like that happen again, but I can’t— I can’t always stop it. And I hate it. I hate seeing you hurt, and knowing that maybe if I’d done something differently…” He looks at Will, eyes hard behind the shine of tears. “I dragged your body along behind me for four days. _Four. Days._ And every single second, I wondered if I’d be able to tell if you’d died, or if I’d find out hours later and know that I hadn’t been there when—”

There’s another long silence, broken only by the soft clanking and splashing of dishes being washed, and the rhythmic thudding of Trobar’s axe splitting wood.

“I haven’t always been a friend to you, I know that. I haven’t always been there for you like I should have been, like I wanted to be. But, God, Will, if I _could_—”

“I know,” Will says quietly. He’s always known. Ever since that boar hunt, so long ago, he’s known that Horace would gladly throw himself along the path of certain death if it meant protecting someone else. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you can’t always. I don’t think I could bear it, knowing that I was the reason, every time.”

Horace gives him a meaningful look.

“I’ve already said this wasn’t your fault!” Will protests. “How else would you like me to spell it out for you? ‘I don’t blame you.’ ‘You couldn’t have stopped it.’ ‘You saved my sorry behind from my own idiocy yet again.’ ‘I know you care—’” 

He breaks off with a strangled cry as the damaged muscles in his side, already taxed beyond endurance, seize and start to spasm. He doubles over with the pain and tries to take a breath, but can’t, his chest locked up as well. His vision, never fully cleared from the exertion of walking, clouds further with every shallow, hitching gasp; he sees Horace crouching before him again, leaning in close, trying to talk to him, though he can’t hear anything beyond muffled, indistinct noises. 

But it’s enough. If Horace is here, then everything’s going to be all right.

← ⋅ →

Horace’s shout brings Malcolm out in seconds, followed closely by Orman and Xander. Will’s folded in on himself, clutching at his wounded side and gasping in short, wheezing pants, and Horace’s heart is pounding double-time. Malcolm takes in the scene in a moment, and gestures Horace back. “Orman, Xander,” he says curtly, “help me lift him. Let’s get him inside.”

The three of them shuffle back into the cabin, Horace hovering awkwardly behind, and lay Will down on a long bench by the fire. Orman has to hold his shoulders down, as Will keeps trying to sit up, to curl protectively around his injury, and Xander wordlessly retrieves a cushion to pillow his head. Then Malcolm moves in front of Horace, bending over Will and blocking him from his sight. He can’t see what he’s doing, and for a couple of minutes, nothing seems to happen. Malcolm’s speaking in a low, soothing voice, and Will keeps making those sharp little sounds, and Orman’s still holding him down so _that_ can’t be be a good sign. 

Then there’s a cut-off cry from Will, followed by several long, slow, shaking breaths.

Malcolm sits back on his heels, and Orman releases his hold on Will’s shoulders

“Just a cramp,” Malcolm announces, far more mildly than the situation would seem to call for.

“Oh, of course,” Horace says faintly. “Just a cramp. Silly me, I should have known.”

Malcolm looks over his shoulder at him and frowns.

Orman looks between Horace, Will, and Malcolm, and comes to a decision. “I think we’ve taken up quite enough of your time today,” he says brusquely. “Xander, would you go and get the horses ready? We ought to be getting back to Macindaw.”

Xander bobs a bow, dons his cloak, and scurries out.

Malcolm doesn’t even make a pretense at trying to discourage them. “I’m always happy to open my home to you,” he says, and Orman dips his head in acknowledgement.

“Likewise. And to you as well,” he adds, indicating Horace and Will. Horace nods, but Will doesn’t appear to be taking any note of his surroundings, wholly focused on pulling in deep draughts of air. “Please do keep me informed,” Orman murmurs to Malcolm, who nods in response. Then, wrapping up in his characteristic black cloak, Orman slips out after his servant.

Several moments pass in stillness as the jingles of bridles and stirrups bloom and fade, dampened by snow and distance.

“Well,” Malcolm says eventually. “Now that we’ve had our excitement for today, I think the two of you should go and lie down for a while.”

Horace doesn’t need to be told twice. He helps Malcolm get Will back to his room, then goes into his own and collapses onto the bed without even taking his boots off.

← ⋅ →

He wakes up to the fading light of late afternoon and a throbbing behind his eyes that signals an impending headache.

What a fucking day it’s been.

He spends an embarrassingly long time trying to decide if he wants to go and see Will – or rather, if he’s ready to. On the one hand, their conversation hadn’t exactly concluded, and there’s still the feeling of raw-edged uncertainty about it. On the other hand, Horace isn’t at all sure that they wouldn’t just end up covering the same territory as before, without getting any further. Feelings, he decides, are terrible, messy things, and he doesn’t much enjoy dealing with them.

Some feelings, of course, are simple and easily expressed, and those are fine. But these? This twisting, unsure mass of _something_ in his chest, that he can’t even put a name to? Horrid. Unpleasant. Not worth it.

But… 

But. 

Maybe – _maybe_ – he can put them aside for a little while, and just go see Will. Maybe (_maybe_) he can simply get up, walk across the hall, and make sure he’s doing all right. No feelings necessary. No need to bring up whatever it was that had driven him out of the house, or to address the odd mix of guilt and anger gnawing away at his conscience. 

Maybe he can just… go and see his friend.

Maybe?

With a loud, frustrated sigh, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, rubbing at the grit in his eyes and trying to push away the ache.

When did this get so difficult? So complicated? Maybe it always had been, and he was just too obtuse to realise. Something he’d never really considered, in his childhood dreams of knighthood and battle and glory, was how bleak it must be to go through life knowing that your closest friends and comrades were more likely to die in front of you than live to old age alongside you. 

It’s definitely something he considers now. The awareness had burst over him during the battle with Morgarath, when for the first time he’d seen men cut down and die awful, painful deaths, but that initial horror was weathered into something sorrowful and bitter when they’d come upon Will and Evanlyn in the mountains of Skandia. 

They’d both aged so much, were both worn ragged from months of lean survival, but the sight of Will, gaunt and dull-eyed and so far removed from Horace’s memories of him, had broken his heart. He hadn’t known what to do, other than stand by him and support him, and the fact that that had clearly been _enough_ was somehow the worst part of it all.

Will had been through seven kinds of hell, but he never asked for anything more than a friend, never seemed to expect anything more than the barest of kindnesses, never gave the slightest indication that what he was given wasn’t enough.

He’s spoken to Evanlyn about that time. He knows what it took to pry him loose from the addiction. He knows that most of her nightmares weren’t about violence or fear, but about Will, standing before her, hands cupped in a wordless plea. About how the only thing he’d wanted was the drug that was killing him, because it gave him a few precious moments of happiness.

But Horace has also spoken to Will, and he knows that his dreams were – and are – much the same. In tired, uncensored moments, Will has admitted that he still thinks about the warmweed, still craves it, still doesn’t know if, given the chance to take it again, he would refuse it.

So here he is, a knight of the realm, favored by the king and the crown princess, sitting in a cabin in the woods, trying to find the courage to talk to his best friend. Because he doesn’t know how to be a friend to someone whose death he can all too clearly imagine in a dozen different ways.

He really should have thought about this before becoming a knight.

Then he laughs humourlessly: he doesn’t _think._ He’s not a _thinker._ That’s been his problem all along.

“God,” he says, though he doesn’t know which god he’s addressing. Any of them are welcome to show up and help at any time, but they never do.

Fuck it. He may not be a thinker, but he's not a coward, either, and hiding in his room isn't going to fix anything. 

He stands, and goes to see Will.

← ⋅ →

It’s kind of anticlimactic, because Will is asleep.

Horace almost takes the out, considers gratefully accepting this delay in their inevitable confrontation and leaving quietly, but then mentally shakes himself. _Grow up,_ he says sourly, and steps inside. 

Will’s breathing stays deep and even as he crosses to the chair by the bed, but the moment Horace sits down, his eyes slide open and he turns his head to face him.

“Long time no see,” he says, and Horace sighs. 

“You Rangers, with your silent moving and your fake sleeping. No wonder you have a terrible reputation.”

Will grins, a little tiredly. “It does come in handy.” Then he grows serious. “Are you all right? You look a bit…” He trails off, pulling a face.

Horace runs a hand through his hair and grimaces. Going by the feel, ‘wild’ is probably an understatement. “I took a nap,” he admits. “Probably shouldn’t have, since now I’ve got a headache and I have no idea what time it is.”

“I know what you mean. I woke up thinking it was tomorrow, but apparently it’s still today. You should tell Malcolm about the headache,” he adds. “He’ll have something to help.”

Horace shrugs. “Maybe. But I think I’m the one supposed to be asking that question.”

Will shrugs in his turn – as well as he can, anyway, while lying down. “Not much to report. Malcolm yelled at me a little bit, redid a couple of the stitches, yelled some more.”

“Oh, good, so I don’t have to.”

“You don’t have to,” Will agrees.

“I may anyway,” Horace warns. “You’ve really been doing a number on my nerves, you know that?”

“I know,” Will says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Horace sighs. It’s hard to be angry at Will for long anyway, but it’s almost impossible when he’s like this. He looks half-asleep still, and about as rumpled as Horaces feels. He tucks a stray curl back from his face, and if he lets his touch linger a little, neither of them acknowledges it.

“Just be careful,” he says. “You say it’s your job to take care of yourself, so do that. Because I’m not leaving until you can, too, and I don’t know about you, but I have responsibilities to get back to.”

Will huffs. “Please. Your responsibilities are ‘looking impressive’ and ‘going on picnics.’”

“Oh, like yours are so much more important. ‘Walking quietly’ and ‘scaring people.’ Truly the backbone of this kingdom’s security.”

“I guess we’re not so different, then. We each have our parts to play.”

They’re both grinning now, and even if Will’s is loose and groggy, it’s good to see.

“Get some more rest,” Horace says, after a bit. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to eat.”

Will tries and fails to stifle a yawn. “All right. And you go get something for your headache.”

“All right,” Horace agrees, and goes to do just that.

← ⋅ →

Malcolm’s ordered two more days of bed rest. Will doesn’t mind, which means that he definitely needs it.

The stitches he’d torn were in the muscle under the skin, so Malcolm had needed to reopen part of the wound to get to them and repair them. Despite the anaesthetics he’d been given to keep him asleep during the procedure, it left him exhausted and even more sore than before, so he was happy to doze away the next day. 

Now, though, he’s getting restless again. Horace’s lighthearted jibe about responsibilities had gotten him thinking. Primarily, thinking about how _busy_ he’s going to be in the next few weeks. He needs to let the corps know what’s happened so that someone can cover Seacliff while he’s recovering, which may be some time. It’ll likely be at least a week before he can travel— Which, in turn, reminds him that he doesn’t currently have a horse. Tug and Kicker would still be in the stables of a small inn which lay almost a week’s travel to the south, so they’ll have to make sure they go past it and collect them— and that’s not even to _mention_ the mission they had failed to complete, which, although not urgent, should still be addressed at some point in the relatively near future. So he’ll have to give his report on _that,_ and also probably submit a statement with _Horace’s_ report, _as well as_ submit a claim for the disbursement of funds upon injury of personnel during routine duties, which he doesn’t even _want_ to do because he doesn’t _need_ the extra money, but he _has_ to.

He makes a frustrated noise and throws down the pen with a little too much force, scattering ink droplets across the page. He’s borrowed a notebook and pen from Malcolm with the intention of making a list of all the things he needs to take care of, but instead of a neatly ordered list, he’d ended up with a frantic scribbled mess of arrows and underlines and subpoints – and, now, ink splatters. Perfect.

Now he knows why every single Ranger in the corps treats the word ‘paperwork’ like the foulest of curses.

“All right?” Horace asks, leaning in through the doorway.

“Fucking _paperwork,_” Will spits, and Horace withdraws hastily.

“Ah, well, best of luck with that, then.”

Knights have it so goddamn easy.

← ⋅ →

Once the two additional days of bed rest are up, Will can be found most often at the kitchen table, scribbling messages to send to by pigeon to various points around the kingdom, carefully printing out reports two or three times over, and writing less urgent letters for delivery by post. Shadow, now allowed to be around him, spends much of her time lying under the table as he works, her head on her paws and her tail thumping peacefully against his feet.

His recovery is well under way, now, and Horace suspects they’ll be able to leave before the week is up, provided they take the journey carefully.

And provided that Will doesn’t do anything stupid in the meantime.

Miraculously, he doesn’t, and before too much longer they’re packing up what meager belongings they had arrived with, and the much more robust bundles of supplies from Malcolm. He’s arranged for a pair of horses to be sent from Macindaw, to get them out of Grimsdell and to the castle, where Orman will have a two-horse cart set aside for their use.

After nearly four weeks in the healer’s cabin, it feels odd to be leaving, but Horace is definitely ready to go. He’s not used to being in one place for so long without any set goal to accomplish, and he’s been even antsier than Will the past few days. They’re both eager to be on the road and get back to their lives. Will still has quite a lot of healing to do before he can resume his duties as a Ranger, but at least he’ll be able to spend those weeks in his cabin by the sea in peaceful Seacliff Fief.

The journey south is calm and pleasant, and highly reminiscent of their first adventures in Norgate. This time, though, it’s just the two of them, and this time, when they reach the crossroads where they’d separated before, Horaces pauses.

“Well, I suppose this is goodbye, for now,” Will says after a bit. They’d gotten their horses back a couple of days ago, and Kicker seems impatient about getting home, but Horace shakes his head and turns the horse onto the southward road.

“I thought I might join you at Seacliff for a bit,” he says, hoping the dryness of his mouth isn’t evident in his voice. “I’m a little sick of winter, to be honest, and figure it’ll be milder there.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Oh? That’s odd, because I could swear I remember you saying something about responsibilities you needed to attend to.”

Horace scratches his chin thoughtfully. “True,” he says. “But I suppose I _could_ look impressive and go on picnics at Seacliff as well as I could do at Araluen.”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitches, and he chooses that moment to look away down the road before them. A moment later, when he looks back, he’s got his grin under control, but he can’t do anything to hide the gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “I rather think you could.”

**Author's Note:**

> things I love:  
\- em dashes  
\- en dashes  
\- italics  
\- these two goddamn emotional wrecks  
\- using super rough, un-beta’d, barely revised fics to beat down the doors of new fandoms  
\- anyone who finished reading this monstrosity
> 
> "bazsarózsa" means "peony," and is the title of a very haunting song about the impermanence of life, so, you know. naturally i used it.
> 
> thanks for reading, and please feel free to leave any feedback you'd like to!


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